


Where No-One Can Read You

by commoncomitatus



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 11:52:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3446177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commoncomitatus/pseuds/commoncomitatus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-"In Your Heart Shall Burn".  A lot of things changed after Haven, some more obvious than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

—

She comes to you at night.

Every night, at precisely the same time. She is not subtle, never has been, but it is still nearly a week before you notice the pattern, and longer still before you wonder at the reasons behind it.

You chide yourself when the moment comes; you always chide yourself for not noticing these things, and yet you never seem to improve. A failing, and not a small one. Observation, understanding the wider significance of things going on around you… these things are infuriatingly out of your reach, and have been for as long as you can remember. Perhaps you should spend more time with Varric; he runs his mouth to an offensive degree, but perhaps his storytelling might inspire you to _think_ , to notice things like this before they become patterns so obvious a blind nug could see them. He has few redeeming features, but if there is one above all others, it is his empathy. He sees, he understands; not simply patterns, but people.

That is for another time, though. Tomorrow, perhaps, if your duties permit. Another day, if they do not. For now, it is far too late, and apparently you are otherwise occupied.

She does not knock. She does not ask permission. She has never quite grasped the concept of ‘common courtesy’, despite Lady Vivienne’s best attempts to educate her. She does nothing, says nothing, and yet somehow that feels like enough. You could dismiss her, send her away, tell her to return when she has learned some rudimentary politeness, but you do not. You are as helpless as she is stubborn; she’s smiling, feigning carelessness, and it is very difficult to say ‘no’ when she looks at you as though you are worth so much much more than you are.

She climbs into the bed, fully dressed and impossibly cold, and you don’t even think to question it. There is little room here, as in the rest of the fortress, but there is enough for another body. She presses in close, squeezes what little space there is until it’s less than nothing, and you cannot bring yourself to mind the invasion.

“Tell me about her,” she says, cheek cold as ice against the crook of your neck. You lean away, but she follows seemingly without thought, pressing against you once again. “The Divine. Bet you’ve got lots of stories about her.”

You laugh, though she doesn’t seem to mind. “Have we not exhausted this subject several times already?”

“Maybe.” She shrugs, head nestled underneath your chin. “But I thought you liked it. Talking, I mean. About her. Doesn’t it make you feel… I dunno, closer to her or something?”

It is an odd question. Thoughtful, or as close to it as she is capable of. You consider your answer, not because you have very much to think about — truth be told, you are not one for thinking much at all, even when it is the wiser course — but because you want her to know that her questions matter, that _she_ matters. No-one has ever taught her that; you know this, not by anything she says or does, but by the way she holds herself. Head down, lip jutting out, shoulders tight, she is always so desperate to convince herself that she has value. If there is but one lesson you can impart to her, it is that she does. Whether she heeds you is another matter, one out of your hands… but you care, and she deserves to know it.

“I suppose it does,” you say at last.

“Well, there you go, then,” she says, as though the world truly is as simple as she tries to make it. “Makes you feel good, talking. Makes me feel good, listening. Don’t see why it’s always got to be something more than that, like every word you say has to mean something or whatever. Who frigging cares if you already told the story once or twice or whatever? I don’t.” She looks up, eyes big and bright; it is odd, you think, how someone can look so open and be so secretive at the same time. “Do you?”

“Not particularly,” you admit; that is true enough, though you still don’t understand why she would waste both of your time on avenues you have already explored quite thoroughly. “I was simply curious. You do not strike me as the type to hear a tale several times through. In fact, if you don’t mind my saying, you hardly seem the type to hear it once.”

“Well, not usually,” she says, and her shrug shifts her shoulders against your own. “But it’s different when it’s you, innit?” She says it like it’s simple, like that is reason enough; you try to understand, but you don’t. “Everything’s different when it’s you.”

It is odd, the way she phrases herself, the way her limbs relax, the way she smiles against you. “I’m afraid I do not understand.”

“Course you don’t.” She sighs, but the smile does not fade; you suspect she is proud, at least in part, that you wish to hear her opinions. “Varric’s the big-breeches storyteller, right? But it’s bullshit, the way he does it. It’s not about the people in it, or even the people listening. It’s all about him. And that’s the wrong way round, innit? It’s stupid. Who’d want to listen to something that’s more about the storyteller than the story?”

You chuckle. “You’d be surprised.”

“Doubt it.” She shrugs, burrows down under the covers, presses closer. You think about shifting away, but she is shivering with the cold, and some long-buried instinct within you cries out to keep her warm. “Doesn’t change my point, though, does it? You’re not like that. You don’t tell stories like he does. You’re not out to make yourself look good or make people listen or any of that shite. You tell ’em because…” She flounders, perplexed, and you realise that she does not see the truth that shines as clear as daylight to you. “You tell ’em because…”

“I tell them because you ask me to,” you say. Simple enough, and true of course, but she stares at you as though the thought never even occurred to her. “That is all.”

“Yeah?”

You nod, and she relaxes as it brings your head down over the top of hers. “Indeed.”

Her arms are thread-thin around you, muscles tight but not as well-defined as you would expect. You are well accustomed to this by now, the way she wraps herself around you like a blanket, as though you are the one who needs the warmth, not her. You are accustomed to these moments, this underplayed intimacy that seems to bring her so much peace, but it always surprises you just how little there is of her. She should be bigger; you’ve seen the way she draws back the string on her bow, the tension and the tightness, the silent strength. There should be more definition in her arms, her shoulders, but you suppose even muscle must make sacrifices when the body is starving.

She is not starving here, no more than any of you are, but perhaps old habits die hard. Her body is lithe, skinny, though you know she has had eaten well for as long as she’s been with you. The Inquisition is far from flush with luxury, but there is no shortage of food to keep her sated, and if Warden Blackwall’s good-humoured comments are anything to go by, she is not shy about over-indulging. And yet here she is, lying in your arms as though she were still living on the streets, skin and bone and muscle half-wasted from eating itself. Perhaps her body simply doesn’t know where to put all that new nourishment, how to cope with being comfortable for the first time in its life. It saddens you to think about it.

“Go on, then,” she says. Her breath is the only warm thing in her, unsteady against your collarbones. “Tell me a story.”

You sigh. It is late, and you are tired. Unlike her, you know the importance of a good night’s sleep, and the dangers of going into battle without one. You doubt there will be battles to fight tomorrow, but you have learned too many times the dangers of taking a quiet day for granted. Being prepared is not simply common sense; in the Inquisition, it is a necessity. You wish to sleep, or at least to rest, but she is relentless, and it is more than just the cold that makes her shiver against you. You recognise the tremors, though neither of you will admit what they truly mean, and though you have never been quick at noting patterns or meanings, still you cannot turn her away when she is like this.

Besides, even if you attempted it, she probably wouldn’t go.

“Very well,” you say, shaking your head. “If that is what you want.”

“The Divine?” Her voice is little more than a quaver. In anyone else, it might sound childish; in her, it is simply painful.

“The Divine.” You sigh once more, so very tired. “ _Again_.”

She snuggles in close, skinny limbs pressed against your muscles, and you cannot even bring yourself to mind that she is soaking up what little remains of the warmth in this place.

“Grand,” she says, and your sigh turns to a smile as her eyes slide shut.

—

You wake early. She does not.

There is a little sunlight, the half-faded haze of dawn, and it shakes you out of a dream. Haven, of course, in its final moments. Ash and flame covering the world you knew, the life you’d carved out for yourself there, covering everything. Ash, flame, and the scream of an archdemon drowning out your own. It is not a nightmare, not truly; you are too old and too well disciplined for such things, and you have long since given up such childishness. It is a dream, nothing more, easily forgotten as you blink the visions out of your eyes, but that does not mean it was pleasant.

You sigh, sit upright, but stop yourself before you stand. She is curled against you, tight and tense even in sleep, and you can tell that too much movement will wake her. You are restless already, fingers and toes itching to do something, to move, but you do not have the heart to disturb her now that she has finally succumbed to the sleep she so desperately needed. It took hours to settle her, perhaps half the night; her shivers kept you awake far longer than you would have liked, and when she finally fell asleep she thrashed and whimpered until you were sure she would leave bruises. It has been this way every night; silly stories only go so far when reality is always waiting.

But she is still now, and silent, and you will not take that away from her.

It has been hard for everyone. This, you know. Cullen, always the first to take things hard, has locked himself up on the battlements, as far away from the rest of the Inquisition as he can; your duties often give you cause to work with him, and you have seen the shadows spreading under his eyes. You have a suspicion that you know what they mean, the larger problem seeping under the skin. It may have to be dealt with, if it grows, if the shadows spread to swallow him. The timing is bad, and like so many things, it will fall to you to extinguish that particular fire if it catches enough kindling here. For both your sakes, you hope it will not.

Leliana is worse. She has said little, eaten less, but she is beyond your reach. Cullen trusts you; Leliana trusts no-one. Josephine watches over her, eyes brighter than usual, burning with her own grief; it is for her own benefit as much as for Leliana’s that she keeps her vigil. You understand that. It is easier to focus on someone else’s troubles than your own, and Josephine is helped by helping. She is a diplomat; she thrives on the smiles of others, and though Leliana does not smile at all these days, still you know that hers are worth a thousand from anyone else. To Josephine, she hangs the moon. Their bond is a special one, unique, and though they both respect you deeply, you know that they are best left to themselves. You are not wanted there.

You are wanted _here_.

Here, in this uncomfortable corner of a run-down fortress, derelict and half-destroyed. It will become more in the weeks and months to come, but for now it is a shell of its potential. In that, you suppose, it fits the Inquisition, the hurting and haggard people that shiver and dream in its crumbling halls. It does not fit, not yet, but perhaps it will. You hope it will.

For now, though, you are uncomfortable here. The room is small, the bed even smaller, and it is hard to tell which of the two makes your back ache more. It reminds you of what you’ve lost, what everyone has lost, and you do not like it one bit.

She does, though. This room, this bed. She likes it, and it seems that she likes you as well.

She has come to you every night since you arrived here. Every night, you wake to her voice, her shivering, her thread-thin arms around your waist. You sigh and shift, make room in a barely-existent space, say nothing as she crawls in beside you. A moment of silence, acknowledgement without condoning, and then it begins.

 _“Tell me a story.”_ Every night without fail. Murmured pleas for tales about Divine Justinia, her life in the Chantry, your life as her Right Hand, Leliana’s life as her Left, both of you in the days before the Inquisition. She clings to your words, your stories, your memories of a world before the Breach. Every night, the same dance, and you indulge her because it is easier to shape a new routine than cling to the shattered fragments of an old one.

The Herald — no, not any longer; the _Inquisitor_ — has talked to you about her. At Haven, and again after you arrived here. _“Overwhelmed by everything,”_ she said, as though you are the authority on what that means, on what she is going through. You are not her guardian, and yet all eyes turn to you when her name comes up, as if you alone can make sense of her, as if anyone in the Inquisition could calm the poor girl’s nerves when they cry out like they do. She is easily agitated, easily frightened, and quicker to anger than anyone you have ever met. You know this about her, even without anyone else pointing it out, but you cannot fathom what the Inquisitor expects you to do about it, what _she_ expects you to do. You are not her guardian… and even if you were, you cannot afford to be any longer.

She should not be here. In your bed, yes, but in the Inquisition as well. You respect her intentions, appreciate her efforts thus far, but she is outmatched and outwitted, and it is long past time someone acknowledged this. Any idiot could see that she will send herself to an early grave if she continues, and though she enjoys playing the fool as often as she can, you know she is not so stupid as she appears. She must know that she is surrounded by superiors on every side, must know that she has nothing more to offer. Even the rawest and greenest of Cullen’s new recruits are worldlier and wiser than she could ever hope to be, and even you with all your Seeker training cannot forge armour in a fire so wild and untameable. Your every instinct is screaming at you to discard her, to send her away before her weaknesses get her killed.

But you do not. You cannot even bring yourself to suggest it. When the Inquisitor tells you that she worries, you can only nod your agreement and promise to speak with her.

You have not done that either, though you know you must soon. You have all suffered a terrible blow; she is far from alone in that. There are none in the Inquisition who have not lost friends or loved ones in the assault on Haven, and none who are not unnerved by what was revealed there. Everyone is afraid, everyone is shaken and in pain, and though you will be the first to concede that some are suffering more than others, almost all have been able to push their feelings aside for the greater good. Even Cullen, even Leliana, both broken by so much more than one terrible event, have not allowed their suffering to cripple them. The Inquisition cannot afford to be bowed by a well-meaning but troubled young woman who cannot crawl out from under her own pain.

 _We must be vigilant_. You know this. The Inquisition cannot stand against a threat like Corypheus if it is crumbling from within.

And yet, you hold your tongue. Again and again. And not just in the nights, not just with her shivering against you and her thread-thin arms pinning your waist. It has been this way almost from the moment you first met.

She cowers from demons, and instead of telling her to grow stronger you strengthen your own defences so that you might better protect her next time. You put yourself between her and the blows that would teach valuable lessons, necessary pain that would make her braver in the end. You do this time and time again, though you know that she must learn, that hurting is the only way. She trembled like a child when the Breach swallowed the sky, and she trembles still under the rifts that linger in its wake. She cowers from mages, cringes from templars, even those under the Inquisition’s command, and even though you know that it is imperative to teach her better, still you go out of your way to keep them away from her, to keep her safe where you should be teaching her to be better. Every place you have been is another challenge, another weakness made manifest; she complains at the Fallow Mire, becomes seasick on the Storm Coast, swelters into a faint in the Oasis, and yet you still excuse her.

Her weaknesses are yours. They weaken the Inquisition itself, yes, but they mark a flaw in you personally as well. Your trainers would never allow her to remain in such a state. So why do you?

She answers the question for you. She stirs, still half-asleep, eyes heavy and lidded, but coherent. More so than she is when she’s fully awake, anyway. Endearing, in a way that makes your heart ache.

“You make everything safe,” she mumbles, and rolls over onto her belly. You wonder if she knows how exposed she is, how vulnerable; you wonder if she would care. “Coryphe-tit won’t know what hit him when he goes up against you.”

“I appreciate your confidence,” you say, and wonder how it feels to have so much faith in someone you barely know.

—

You spend the morning with Cullen.

It does not happen as often as it should, but you always enjoy the time spent when it does. In the first, it makes for a refreshing change of pace, and in the second, you have always got on well with him. You talk tactics, war, discuss the hard choices that will need to be made before Skyhold is ready to serve as the fortress it once was. Between you, you face the difficult things, the things that few others are ready to even acknowledge so soon after Haven.

He nods at your opinions; you shake your head at his. This is how you communicate, and it works surprisingly well for you both. You respect each other, and you think in the same colours. You draw the same lines, and though they always come up at different lengths, somehow they always seem to fit together. You disagree, loudly and often, but you never argue.

Cullen is a good man, good company. You enjoy his presence, and you flatter yourself that he enjoys yours as well. It warms your heart, the way he lets himself go, the way he allows himself a chuckle or a smile at some misinterpreted remark or another. You bring out a side of him that has been altogether lacking since the assault on Haven, and when you watch the colour come back to his cheeks you allow yourself to wonder if perhaps you are a good influence after all. It makes you feel useful, if not as much as you would like, and that helps greatly.

Things stagnate when you mention her name, though, and all that carefully-cultivated colour drains from his face as though it was never there at all.

“I see,” he says, but how can he when you have not yet voiced your thoughts?

A name. Is that truly all he needs to know what you are thinking? Are you truly so transparent? Does the whole Inquisition know that she comes to you at night, that she begs you for stories, that you are too weak to send her away? Preposterous, you know, but you have always worried more than you should about how people see you. _I see,_ he says, and looks at you as though you were carved from marble.

“I do not believe you do,” you say, and turn your face away.

“All right,” he says, as easily as if you were discussing the weather. “So talk to me.”

It is not so easy. War, tactics, hard choices… those things are easy. Simple, straightforward, it is what you have trained for your whole life. But the way you feel when you think of her, when you think of doing what you know needs to be done? That is not so simple, not so straightforward, and you know what he is going to say before you even say anything at all. What else? The answer is obvious.

“She is… not handling herself well.”

You choose your words carefully. He is a good man, you tell yourself again, and you know he will not condemn you for your lapses in judgement. You never condemned him for his own, after all.

He shrugs. “I see,” he says again, but if he did he would not have to say it.

“I know that I should be harder on her.” You sigh, hating the taste of honesty. “I know that I should put my foot down, insist that she grow or… or command her to leave. If she continues along this path, she will become a liability. A liability we cannot afford, in light of recent events. I know that. I know what is right, what must be done. And yet… I cannot…”

It surprises you when he breaks into another smile. The expression does not come naturally to him, but then it never has; Cullen has never been one for smiling when he can scowl, and the few times he allows himself to soften it always means something.

“Good,” he says. Like always, he makes it sound so simple, as though everything is as easily planned as one of his military operations. “I’ll be the first to agree that she can be… problematic.” He stumbles over the word, not because he doubts it but because he notices the way you recoil. “But in light of recent events… well, I think we could all stand to be a little forgiving.”

It is a fair point, but not helpful, and you allow the dissatisfaction to show on your face. “Forgiveness is one thing,” you say. “But this is dangerous. She is reckless enough, even without these weaknesses, and the Inquisition can no longer afford to coddle her. If ‘recent events’ have taught us anything, it is that—”

He cuts you off with a laugh. Not the polite chuckles of before, a bemused head-shaking and a swift change of the subject. He laughs loud and long, the kind of mirth that has been sorely lacking from this shell of a fortress. You quirk a brow, try to scowl, but it is harder than it should be to appear annoyed when you are struck almost dumb by the memory of how it felt to laugh like that.

“Is that what you’re doing?” he asks. “ _Coddling_?”

You don’t know why the accusation riles, but it does. “You do not need to say it like that.”

“Well, you have to admit, it’s quite the image…”

You huff your indignation. “ _I_ am not coddling. I simply meant that she requires a deal of… she demands…” You shake your head. “She is _delicate_.”

“That’s probably the last word I’d use to describe her.” He sounds serious now, a whip-sharp transformation from the too-brief mirth. “Is she really taking it that hard?”

You think of mentioning the last week’s worth of nights, the hours you’ve lain awake as she thrashed and shivered against you, the whimpers that shake you from your own bad dreams. You think of telling him everything, and it is not pride or shame that stops you but practicality. These problems, her weaknesses… they began long before now. Haven has made it abundantly clear that the Inquisition cannot afford to indulge those weaknesses, but you’ve been feeling their presence far longer than the exhausting pilgrimage from Haven.

“Probably not,” you say at last. “It is simply that I…”

“…don’t know how to deal with her?” His voice makes it clear he can relate.

“Indeed. Though not in the way you might think.” She is not easy to talk to, that much you know, but it is not about that. “I simply… I find myself unable to deal with her in an appropriate way. I know what I should do, what I _must_ do. I know that she requires a hard line, and some harder truths, but I cannot bring myself to give them. She is too…” But you cannot finish the sentence, not least of all because you do not know how you feel. “Maker’s breath, I do not know _what_ she is. I only know that she is too much for me.”

He frowns. It is an odd expression, confusion but something else as well. “Too much?” he echoes. “Or too little?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” you demand, and hate the callouses in your voice.

He shrugs. “You’re asking the wrong person for parenting advice.”

The very word is an offence. “I beg your pardon?”

Cullen has never been the most perceptive man, but he senses now that he has overstepped a line. He probably does not realise what, or even why — how can he, after all, when even you yourself do not know why it offends you so? — but he catches the look on your face, the way you bristle, and steps back. Physically, with his whole body, as though you are a prisoner of war and he is trying to make you feel comfortable.

“I didn’t mean…” He trails off, tries again. “Look. All I meant was, ‘don’t ask me’. Truth be told, I try to spend as little time with her as possible. I’ve met recruits strung out on their first shots of lyrium who make more sense than she does on a good day. She gives me the kind of headache I could frankly do without.”

“That makes two of us,” you sigh, and it is only when your hand drops back to your side that you realise you’d been gripping the hilt of your sword.

He watches you for a moment, thoughtful, as though he has a speech planned but cannot decide whether it is worth the risk to offer it. In the end, he opts for the safer option, giving up with both hands in the air. Surrender, in its purest form, and you are so relieved by the change of tack that you do not even think to celebrate the minor victory.

“Well,” he manages wanly. “Like I said, you’re asking the wrong person.”

“That is abundantly clear.” You allow yourself a disgusted snort. “ _Parenting_ advice. Maker preserve us.”

It stays with you, though, that phrase and the look on his face as he says it. Hours later, you still cannot shake it, still cannot turn your thoughts away. He is wrong, of course, several thousand leagues away from the real root of the problem, but it annoys you just the same that even he can cut through the tangled lines. Even he, arguably the most unsentimental member of the Inquisition, can see the feeling tugging at you, the emotional element you have been trying so hard to ignore.

That frustrates you, too. That he, of all people, is the one to recognise this flaw in you. It is something you have always had in common, the two of you, and something you have always respected in each other; you share a mutual tendency to avoid emotional connections with the people under your command, to remain focused on the task laid out before you. You have seen how it tortures Leliana, sending her scouts to their deaths day after day. It is not merely Haven that has changed her; it is every dark deed that Inquisition life demands of her.

You do not wish to become like that, broken down by your own decisions, destroyed by grief and second-guesses. You prefer to be like Cullen, military and authoritative, head always on the battlefield, where it is needed most; you cannot think beyond the orders you give and receive, cannot feel anything beyond the ebb and flow of battle. It is imperative that people like you think with clear heads and hollow hearts, that you act where others lose themselves to sentiment. Occasionally it is lonely, but that has never bothered you as much as others believe it does.

That changes when she is with you.

You do not protect her for her own good; you know that it would serve her better to suffer once in a while, to face her fears and grow from her mistakes. You don’t protect her for the good of the Inquisition, either; it is beyond all doubt that everyone would be better off without her unique breed of ‘help’. And you definitely don’t protect her for your benefit; it is certainly not in your best interest to seek out a healer after every battle with a demon or mage, nor is it in your best interest to lie awake all night gathering bruises from her flailing and growing chilled from her chills.

You know better than that, and she should as well, and yet every time you find yourself doing the same foolish thing. Every time you find yourself diving between her and the blow; every night you find yourself wrapping your arms around thin shoulders, letting yourself be rocked by the violence of her shivering. You turn aside the covers, let her into your bed, perhaps into your heart, not for the good of anyone or anything, but because you cannot bear to turn her away. You cannot bear to be the reason she hurts.

You know how dangerous it is to think that way, and yet, you cannot stop.

You need to, though. You must stop. Every day, it becomes clearer; she will bring down more than just herself if this continues, and you must be the one to end it. Cauterise the wound before it festers, before there is nothing left in either of you to save. If she does not survive, it is your own fault for leaving it so long. And if you do not… well, perhaps you are not so strong as you believe you are.

So, then. Tonight.

A hard decision, but a necessary one. Tonight, you end this. End _her_ , if you must. It is kinder, safer than the alternative, and you have never shied away from what needs to be done.

Tonight.

—

Tonight, she does not come.

It is so like her, you suppose you should not be surprised. And yet, still you lie awake waiting, anticipating, perhaps even hoping. The blankets are too warm around your shoulders; your body has always been efficient at generating its own heat with no real need for the extra weight and warmth, but she is always so terribly cold when she comes to you, and you have started weighing yourself down for her sake. Tonight, you hoped that the blankets might help, might make her more comfortable, that perhaps it would make things easier when the moment came. Perhaps you would be able to do what was necessary if she wasn’t shivering against you.

You have planned it carefully, methodically. It is not like you to run around seeking out every possible alternative, every little thing that could go wrong, but waiting is lonesome and you need something to occupy your thoughts before they consume themselves. So instead of lying awake, staring endlessly at the ceiling, you allow yourself the luxury of planning.

Every word, every possible reaction… you go over everything in your head. She is easily agitated, and it takes very little for that agitation to curdle in her veins to anger, even violence. You worry about that sometimes; she is so quick to temper, and you have seen countless times how difficult it is for her to rein in her violent urges, to control herself. It is not the mark of a good soldier, a good scout; it is not the mark of a good _person_ , and the look in her eye when she loses herself is frightening.

It is dangerous enough here, the two of you alone in a dusty corner of a half-forgotten fortress; in the thick of battle, a crucial moment, she could harm more than just herself, more than just you, a Seeker who can defend herself easily enough. You must deal with that, just as you must deal with the rest of it, and a part of you cannot help wondering why. What is so particular about you that she seeks you out, that she turns to you to guide her? How did the task of turning her away fall to you?

Tonight, it seems, those questions do not matter.

She does not come. You wait all night, awake, almost eager. Even without her, it seems that sleep is elusive. You wait for the moment she arrives, unannounced, unexpected, the moment you must tell her _‘no more’_. You wait for that moment, senses heightened as if on a battlefield, and when it does not come you find that you feel almost empty. A battle avoided, but the lack of bloodshed always leaves you unfulfilled. You had it all planned out, and it would be easy enough to convince yourself that you are loathe to wait another night… and yet, when you look into yourself, you realise it is not the wasted speeches that pain you.

You have not slept for waiting. You have not slept for thinking, for anticipating… and, yes, for _hoping_. Thread-thin arms around your waist, and the way she always fits against you like that is where she belongs. Even as you know you were going to end it, still it is all you can think of. Her shoulders are little more than jutting bone, her skinniness never more obvious than when there is nothing between you, but the hard lines and sharp edges soften against the sinew and muscle of your arms. _She_ softens, and so do you, turning your strength to something a little less vicious. She presses herself against you like it is second nature to her, and you hold her like it is second nature to you as well.

That is what you miss. Her cold skin, jutting bones, thread-thin arms. Her shivering, her breathing, the way she looks up at you in the darkness and begs you for silly stories. _Her_. It is all you can think of, all night; waiting, wondering, missing… aching, not for the relief of seeing it ended but for the ways you change when she lies with you.

You know that you were going to end it. You know this, remember burning hot with determination as the sun went down. You remember the feeling, but now that the sun is rising again, you find that you cannot remember why.

—

Mid-afternoon, she finds you.

You are training, lost to the thunk of blunted wooden blades on dummies that do not fight back. It is not satisfying, but Cullen has taken his troops out on a resource-gathering mission and you do not have a sparring partner on hand. Besides, you are all too aware of your poor form, the way the sword slips from your grasp once or twice because you are too tired to focus; you would not subject the Inquisition’s soldiers to such a thing. You have an image to uphold, after all. Besides, you have long since learned how to make the most of your own company, and this is far from the first time you have whiled away a day in training alone.

As usual, she does not announce herself. You simply glance up, catching your breath between blows, and there she is. She is dragging a heavy-looking box behind her, face flushed and sweaty but with a focus that makes it radiant. An odd choice of word, you think; _radiant_ , like she is something beyond the scrawny little creature she is, and yet it is the only word you can think of.

“Got something for you,” she grins.

The look on her face is mischievous, and you know from experience that that is a reason to worry. You stare at the box with trepidation, and there is not the least bit of humour in you when you say, “I trust that it is not poisonous?”

She laughs as though it were a joke, as though you aren’t perfectly aware of the venomous viper that ‘appeared’ in Lady Vivienne’s underwear drawer.

“Pfft,” she says, and you do not waste your breath telling her that _‘pfft’_ does not quantify as an answer. “Not for you.” Her eyes soften, dart downwards. “Never for you.”

You breathe a sigh of relief, though in truth you are not convinced. She is nothing if not unpredictable, and you know all too well that her idea of generosity does not often tally with those of normal people. Still, you are glad to see her, and your heart flutters to see her smile turn sweet. You try not to think about that, about last night spent waiting for her, about the softening of your resolve to send her away. Better to focus on the task at hand.

“Well, then, do tell. What is it?”

She nudges the box towards you with her foot, but apparently it is heftier than she is, and it does not move at all. “Open it!” she urges, excitable as a child. “See for yourself, yeah?”

So you do, albeit with some discomfiture, and are surprised to find it filled almost to overflowing with books.

A first glance tells you little about its contents, though given the last few nights you suspect they are stories. Some are very old, dusty and mildewed at the edges, and some are a little more modern; the covers are worn, even on the newer volumes, and it is hard to make out the contents from a glance. Regardless, the thoughtfulness of the gesture is not lost on you, and for a long moment you are overwhelmed.

What is she thinking, you wonder, giving this to you? Skyhold has its own library; like most of the fortress, it is in a state of disrepair just now, but you have no doubt that it will be up and running soon enough. Surely that would be a far more suitable repository for these things? Surely these books, whatever their contents, would be better off where all could peruse them if they wish?

And so, though you suspect it will offend her, you frown. “What is this?”

“What’s it look like?” she laughs, as though that explains everything. “It’s _books_ , silly.”

“I can see that,” you say. “But why give them to me? You are aware that we have a library?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” It’s an earnest question, like she truly does not understand. “Look, don’t make a day of it. It’s just… I didn’t want to shove ’em all up on some stuffy shelf somewhere, did I? Nobody’ll see ’em there, nobody’ll read ’em… bloody waste. But you…” She points at you, and you politely ignore the slight tremor in her hand. “You love that shite, don’t you? Books, reading, shit like that.”

It does not make it much clearer, but you concede the point. “I do like to read, yes.”

“Well, there you go, then.” She claps her hands, as though that settles the matter completely. “You’re worth more than some dusty old library. Figured you might…” She trails off for a moment, self-conscious. The flush of her cheeks has nothing to do with exertion now, you can tell, and there is a shyness in the way she scuffs her toes in the dirt that makes you ache to wrap your arms around her. “Well, you know.”

You smile, understanding now. “That is… that is very thoughtful of you.”

“I know, right? Doesn’t happen often, does it?”

You squat down, sift through the volumes. The old ones are incredibly old, you can tell, and clearly quite rare; Josephine or Dorian would probably give their right arm for them. “Where in the world did you find all this?”

Just like that, her whole demeanour transforms. You have never seen so many conflicting emotions on one face before, joy in one moment, shame in another, and a kind of pain underneath that doesn’t make sense. It makes you want to pry, want to interrogate her as you’ve interrogated so many, but you have never been the kind to ask those questions, never been the kind to let yourself care. She could not hide her feelings if she tried — _yet another weakness,_ your common sense points out — and it seems unnecessarily cruel to press her for more.

“Got a room now.” Her eyes are on the ground, teeth digging trenches into her lower lip, chewing more than biting. “Found ’em there. A whole mess of ’em.” She swallows, and you can see her fighting to keep from turning away, from hiding like she always does. “Got plenty more, if you want.”

You frown. The reasoning is simple enough, and it serves well to explain last night’s absence: she has a room at last, and no need to invade yours. The story should end there; you should both move on now, step back from the weakness of the last week and work to put this, and Haven, behind you.

Of course it is not so simple. Even now, the look on her face is haunting. You close your eyes, try to block it out, but her face burns behind your eyelids like the sun. You cannot see anything but her, the way she does not look at you, the way she turns her face away to make sure you don’t look at her either. You cannot think of anything but last night, lying awake, waiting for her, expecting to send her away and instead finding yourself lost and lonely when she does not come at all.

You want to put this to bed, put _her_ to bed. Like a parent, just as Cullen said, you want tuck her into a bed that is her own, fold someone else’s blankets around her and say goodnight. You want to say it for good, for the last time, send her away to somewhere safe, but you cannot see beyond the ghosts in her eyes, cannot think past the way she trembled in your arms those nights she came to you. She is standing here now, right in front of you… and yet still there is a place inside of you that misses her.

“I see,” you say, and note the way it makes her flinch. Your words are soft, but your voice is hard. That is how you always speak, how you are, but it does not always make her flinch like this. It does not always mean so much to her. “So, you have a room of your own now?”

The question lands like a blow; you watch her fight to keep from doubling over, and the noise she makes sounds almost like a sniffle. You want to ask her why, but you know she would lash out if you did.

“Mhm.” It does not sound like an affirmation; it sounds like a whimper. “They opened the tavern last night. Big old closet-space upstairs. Storage, I think, or whatever. Lot of shit, not much room. Bull talked them into letting me have it. Said I’d get myself into trouble if they didn’t give me a place to…” Her voice cracks. “…a place to put my head down.”

“I see.” This time, you are the one to turn your face away. “That is for the best, I suppose. If we are to make this fortress our new home, we must all find private spaces to call our own.”

She flinches again, but you cannot fathom why. Your voice was not so hard this time; you made sure of it. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”

You cannot let it lie; even if your common sense compels you to, you cannot ignore that little place inside you that misses her arms, her bones, her shivering. And so, despite yourself, you ask, “Is this why you did not come to me last night?”

She blushes fiercely, and part of you expects that she will ignore the question, spin on her heel and run away. She does not handle confrontation well, not when the subject makes her uncomfortable, and it would not surprise you in the least if she fled the scene now, before things become too real. You expect it, brace yourself for the burst of disappointment, but it does not come.

“Sure.” Her voice is a rasp. “Seemed stupid, didn’t it? Why would I go to you when I got my own place now? It’s bad form or whatever.” She sighs, heavy, like the weight of having something all her own is greater than the weight of having nothing. “S’not like we’re refugees any more. They’re fixing this place up, making it… making it like a home. Whatever that means. Seemed stupid to need… _want_ …” Her breath catches, but she does not allow her voice to break. Not this time. “Just seemed stupid. That’s all.”

You understand, though you wish you didn’t. You reach for her, touch her shoulder, try not to notice when it makes her flinch again. “It does not seem stupid to me.”

“Well, then, maybe you’re stupid too.”

You can hardly deny that. “Perhaps. But there are far worse ways for a person to find comfort.”

That is true; you hadn’t thought about it before, but it is definitely true. It hurts no-one, helping her to sleep at night, letting her into your bed, into your arms. It does not harm the Inquisition, and it certainly does not harm you; you have thrived on far less sleep than you get with her, after all, and if last night has taught you anything it is that you are not guaranteed to sleep better without her. You miss her skinny limbs when they are not there, and perhaps that alone is reason enough to put off sending her away. There will be time enough in the coming weeks to make Skyhold a home, but for now you are in no hurry to turn your back on Haven’s memory. Perhaps there are worse things than holding on a little tighter for the time being.

She will not hear it, though. You should have expected that. She hunches over the box of books, paws through the volumes inside as though they were little more than rubbish. “Don’t need comfort,” she mutters. “Don’t want it.” Her shoulders shudder, just once. “Don’t frigging _deserve_ it.”

“Nonsense,” you say before you can stop yourself.

You know she will take it badly, and you brace for the violence before it comes. She lunges to her feet, and you are already out of reach, stepping back before she can take a swing. A bad choice, you know, but you cannot take the word back now that you have let it out. You cannot let her walk away wounded.

“Piss on ‘nonsense’,” she says. “And piss on you. I don’t—”

“Yes, you do.” You sigh. “We have all been through an ordeal.”

“No.” She is shivering again, like she does at night, and you want nothing more than to hold her. “ _You_ have. You and your bloody Inquisition. It’s _you_ who’s been through an ordeal or whatever.” She wants so desperately to believe that, to make it easier for herself by pretending she has not suffered too. “Me? I’m just along for the ride. I’ve not been through piss.”

“You are one of us.” It saddens you that she will not allow it, that even now she sets herself apart, that she feels she must if she is to survive. “You know that.”

“No,” she says. “No. What I _know_ is that this… this shit isn’t me. I’m not part of it. I’m not. I _can’t_ be.”

And there it is. She is the one sending herself away; you did not need to say a word.

You call her name as she turns to leave, begging without words for her to understand, to see that you were wrong, that she is wrong now, that she does not need to go anywhere, but she will not heed you.

Well, you think, why should she? If she had come last night, would you not have done exactly this? Cast her out, told her that she does not belong, that the Inquisition is not hers and cannot be? _We must be vigilant;_ were they not your thoughts? She does not belong here, and there is a grain of truth to the way she says she does not deserve to share your pain. You wish it wasn’t so, wish you did not see it, but it is there. Haven was your home, you and the rest of the Inquisition; it was your sanctuary, and the loss is yours. Yours, Leliana’s, Cullen’s. The _Inquisition’s_. She had no right to it.

And yet here you are, wanting nothing more than to touch her, to take her into your arms, to tell her that she does belong, that Skyhold is her home as much as it is yours. All those things you wanted to deny last night, and yet it is all you can think of now. It goes against everything you have tried to tell yourself, everything you have thought since the moment you first met her. You know that her words ring true, that they are echoes of your own, the ones you were denied a chance to say; you know that it is dangerous to keep her, and yet there are tears in your eyes as you reach for her and capture only the air.

“Enjoy the books,” she says, and then you are alone.

—


	2. Chapter 2

—

The tavern is indeed open.

It is more than simply functional, a ghost of a building with rudimentary space inside; you are not entirely sure what you expect when you step through the doors, but what you find is undeniably impressive given Skyhold’s near-derelict state. It is as though the place has been rebuilt from the ground up, knocked down and then shaped anew. Someone has clearly put a great deal of work into it; it is a labour of love, and you cannot decide whether to be impressed by their resourcefulness or disgusted by their priorities.

Not that you don’t appreciate the usefulness of a place like this. You have surrounded yourself with volunteers and conscripts for long enough to recognise the merits of a space without rules, an off-limits corner for soldiers and spies alike to unwind and vent their frustrations without their superiors breathing down their necks. Too often, you know, little things like this are forgotten, and it is always to the detriment of all. A little free time is not simply a good idea; it is necessary if the Inquisition is to flourish, and while you yourself would not choose to pour precious resources into rebuilding a tavern at a time like this, you cannot deny that it has its value.

It is not difficult to find the Iron Bull. He has set himself a little apart from the bustle, but his size and presence scream out as though he were in the centre. He could not be inconspicuous if he tried, though it should not surprise you that he makes the effort; he is always apart, always observing, even when he appears to be in the thick of things. It is one of the things you admire most about him; mercenary or no, he takes his work very seriously, even when there is no reason to. Too many mistake his casual attitude for carelessness, but you know better, and you will never underestimate him.

He greets you with a smile, raises his mug high. You cannot tell how long he has been drinking, but you are familiar enough with his constitution to know that it does not matter; one drink or a dozen, he will always be sober enough to do his job.

“Always a pleasure,” he says, though he must know from the hunch of your shoulders that you are not here for idle chat.

“Indeed.” You turn a slow circle to take in the surroundings, the tavern, cast a critical eye over the decor, the patrons, the situation. “Am I to assume that this is your doing?”

He laughs, a little too loud; a few others turn to stare. “Mine? Fuck, no. I don’t have time for shit like this.” He is smiling, though, and you have no doubt that he has put in a word or two with someone somewhere, if not for his own benefit, then certainly for his Chargers. “Can’t say I’m not glad someone did, though. It’s a nice enough place you’ve dug up here, but it’s nothing without someplace for the boys to blow off steam.”

“I agree,” you say, though you keep a terseness to your voice that says you do not approve quite as thoroughly as he does. “We have enough to contend with at the moment. We cannot afford to fall to in-fighting as well.”

“And we won’t. Not now, anyway. Keep the liquor flowing, you’ll improve morale a hundred per cent, even on a bad day.” He takes a long swallow of whatever is in the mug; it is strong-smelling and looks foul, so you do not ask. “But if I know you, you’re not here to talk about my choice of drinking spots…”

True, and you acknowledge it with a nod. “I’m afraid not.”

Many would be affronted by this, being called to business in a place that is supposed to be private. Not Bull, though; he is always ready to do what needs to be done, even at the cost of his own comfort. Still, though, he does not put down his mug, and you know him well enough to know that he will not until you make it an order. You have no intention of doing that, of course — not for something like this — but if it were something more important you both know you would not hesitate.

“So…” he presses, when you do not speak further. “What can I do for you?”

You need only say her name and his entire demeanour changes. It is just like Cullen yesterday, as though her name has some special properties to ruin anyone’s day. You would almost be amused, if you didn’t count yourself among that number.

Bull sighs, a low rumble reminiscent of distant thunder. He drains the remains of his drink in a single swallow, and when he looks at you again there is a sobriety in his face that belies the strength of the liquor; you can smell the stuff on his lips, strong enough that you can practically taste it yourself, but he lets no hint of it show through in his face.

“Yeah…” he says, as though that answers every question you might have asked. “She’s really something, isn’t she?”

“She certainly is… _something_.” You try not to think of her damp eyes as she scuffs her feet in the dirt, the sweat flushing her skin as she drags a box full of books halfway across the courtyard, the way she turns shy and quiet as she skirts a little too close to feeling. “She tells me you arranged for a room?”

He snorts. “Well, that’s kind of overstating it.”

It is refreshing to find somebody so willing to underplay their own kind deeds. Bull can brag with the best of them, you know, but only when he believes it is deserved. Commissioning a room is hardly along the same lines as slaying a dragon or defeating a cult of demon-worshipping mages, and it serves his reputation little to be associated with it. He will do it because it is right, or perhaps because he cares, but that is the limit of it. If nobody else ever learns what he has done, it will be enough for him to know that he did it. It is honourable, and you respect him greatly for it.

Still, you push, because you are curious. “Overstating it?”

“The room was empty,” he says, and shrugs. “I happened to mention she could make use of it. Scrawny little thing like her, you won’t even notice she’s there. Barkeep had no objections.” Another shrug, heavier this time. “It’s not like I had to go out and bust heads to see the thing done. Just made a suggestion and that was it.” Apparently sensing that there is more to this, he narrows his one good eye, squints at you with the kind of scrutiny you sometimes see him take with his Chargers. “Look, if you or Cullen had plans for the room or something, I can—”

“No.” The word comes out far more sharply than you intended. Truth be told, you did not even know this room existed; indeed, until this afternoon, you did not even know the _tavern_ existed. “Nothing like that. I was simply curious as to your motivation. It surprised me to learn about it, you see, and I wanted to…”

“You wanted to make sure my intentions were pure?” He bursts out laughing, and if you were not so embarrassed by the misinterpretation you might almost be insulted. “You do know that I’m not her ‘type’, right?”

“Of course I know that. But—”

He cuts you off with another explosive laugh. “She’d have my horns up on that wall if I tried anything like that.”

“That is not what I meant,” you snap, and perhaps he senses your discomfort because he quiets himself. “I simply wondered…” You sigh. Clearly he cares for her, or he would not have stepped in to secure the room as he did, so where is the harm in being honest about your concerns? “Well. You have seen her. She is…”

He narrows his eye further, until it is scarcely a slit. “What?”

You cough, try to think of a rational way to put it. He is a mercenary, a warrior; surely he must understand. “She is not not exactly forged in the same iron as you or I. She is… _delicate_.” It is the same word you used with Cullen, but Bull does not respond the same way. “And I… I worry…”

“You and me both.” He’s sober now, serious. That does him credit. “She’s tougher than you think, though. Tougher than a lot of people think, if you ask me.” His expression softens, like he’s relaxing. “But, hey, you know all that already, don’t you? Wouldn’t keep her around if you didn’t.”

Unknowingly, he has touched on the root of the problem. It stings, a burst of pain against a nerve, and the discomfort compels you to look away. “It is complicated.”

He grunts, as close to a revelation as you have ever heard from him; he understands you, more easily even than Cullen, and you suppose this should not surprise you. As you just said, the two of you are forged from the same iron; if anyone would understand your concerns, it is him.

“Don’t suppose you’ve tried talking to her about it?” he asks. “She’s not really one for keeping things ‘complicated’. If there’s anyone out there who can untangle that knot, it’s her.” He gives a long, lazy stretch. “She’s good at that.”

True enough, at least in general, but not right now. “I believe she has something of a blind spot when it comes to her own… knots.”

Bull huffs a laugh. “Don’t we all?” He stands, straightening his spine with a deafening crack, and looks to the bar. “Buy you a drink? Usually helps when I’m talking to her.” He smiles, wry but fond; he truly does care, you can tell, perhaps as much as you do. “Amazing how much sense she can make if you’re wasted before she gets going.”

You laugh too; you cannot help yourself. You have never been truly ‘wasted’ in your life, and you are unafraid to let him see the reaction because you know he respects you for it. He would respect you more if you did drink with him once in a while, of course, but he understands why you cannot allow yourself that luxury. You and he are both leaders, and you both take similar lines with your work; though he could never work the same way you do, still he understands and respects that you need to remain respectable at all times, that you do not have the freedom he has to let your men see you falter.

“I don’t think that is a good idea,” you say aloud. “And to be honest, I doubt it would help. To tell the truth of it, Bull, I find speaking with her to be unexpectedly difficult.” You grimace. “Even by my usual standards.”

“Yeah, you’re not exactly big on small talk, are you?”

“Not if I can help it.” He does not judge you for that, either, you can tell, and you feel your shoulders lose a little of their tension as he nods. “It is infuriating. I know that she would be better off away from us, that her staying here is dangerous for everyone. I know it, and so does she.” He grunts at that, surprised, so you elucidate a little. “She said as much this afternoon.”

“She did?”

“Indeed. I believe it makes her… uncomfortable. Being a part of something so much bigger than herself. She feels that she does not belong here, that she does not _deserve_ to be here. And in truth, she is right. I know it, as surely as she does, and yet I cannot bring myself to tell her so.”

His expression is darker now, guarded. Clearly, he does not agree. “Why not?”

You swallow your pride, allow him to see your own weakness, the emotional element you have tried so hard to deny. “I find that I… would miss her.”

He snorts, amused, but when he speaks it is with stark sobriety. “That’s new information?”

“It is to me,” you say, and shake your head.

“Not to me. Not to a lot of folks round here. We’d all miss her.” He studies you for a moment, sees the conflict on your face, the struggle; perhaps he understands that this is new to you, that you have never met anyone quite like her, let alone cared about them. “You have no idea, do you? What she does. What she brings to the table.”

You think about that, and find you cannot deny it. You have only thought of her in terms of yourself, of what she brings to you personally, how she disrupts the tide of battle in the moments when it matters most. You have only thought in terms of your Seeker training, and the failings in her that you cannot ignore. She is a liability, albeit a charming one, and it is difficult enough to think about what’s best for her when all you can see is how it would affect you. You certainly haven’t wondered what effect her presence — or, indeed, her absence — would have on the others, the friends she’s made. Why would you, after all, when it was all so simple in your head?

“I suppose I don’t,” you concede aloud, and allow yourself the luxury of deferring to someone else. “Enlighten me?”

He smiles. Respects that you do not have all the answers, and respects you all the more for admitting it out loud.

“Look around,” he says. “You said it yourself: a place like this is an institution. What with all this shit that’s going on… if we don’t get to blow off steam once in a while, we’ll all just explode. Maybe hurt someone else, maybe hurt ourselves. And what’s the good in letting that happen? Bad for morale, and it makes a mess to boot. No-one’s happy when shit like that festers. Bad moods, bad people, and it just takes one bad morning to turn into a bloodbath.” He fixes you with a knowing smile. “You know as well as I do, unhappy soldiers get themselves killed. Keeping them happy, keeping morale up… it’s not just about shutting up the complainers, is it?”

You bow your head. “No. It is not.”

“Right. Same thing with her, too. We need people like her. People who know how to have _fun_. People who remind the rest of us stuck-in-the-mud types how to have fun too.” There’s a smile in his voice, so you look up to see the curve of his lips, the fondness reaching a crescendo as he thinks about it. “She’s not as stupid as you higher-ups want to believe. You gotta know that. But even if she was, where’s the harm if she makes people laugh?”

“It is not enough,” you say, though you wish it was. “She requires resources.”

“So? Don’t you? Don’t I? Heck, this whole damn place does.” He rolls his eye, amused and vaguely irritated. “Can’t even think about how many of your precious ‘resources’ Lady Vivienne uses up ordering those fancy clothes out of Orlais. You ever think about kicking her out to the cold for that?”

“Of course not. But Lady Vivienne is not… she does not…” You clench your teeth, will yourself to shape the words, to admit the root of the problem. It is not her, of course; it is you. “I do not _worry_ about Lady Vivienne.”

The distinction is pointed, and he does not miss it. “Looks like you’ve been coming at it from the wrong angle.”

“Perhaps I have.” You take a deep breath, force yourself to say the words aloud. “Perhaps it is not that she is a liability. Perhaps I am simply afraid that _I_ will become one too if I continue to worry about her… if I continue to _care_ about her.”

“There you have it, then.” He grunts, a guttural Qunari sound. Apparently giving up his venture to the bar, he sits back down and puts his feet up on the nearest table. Perhaps to make a point, perhaps simply to make the place look untidy; either way, it helps you to relax. “We’re a team, Seeker. We look out for each other. It’s not all on you.”

You think of the room he arranged for her, the reason why she did not come to you last night. There is no denying that the gesture was a thoughtful one, that it was kind and compassionate, and yet when you think about it all you see in your mind’s eye are the cracks in her smile and the way she would not look at you. A gift, but at what cost?

“It was generous,” you say, because you cannot think of anything else. “Arranging a room for her. It was a kind gesture.”

“Kind gesture, my ass,” he mutters. “She _needed_ it.”

It is an odd way of phrasing it, made odder still by the urgency in his voice. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. She needs a place like that, a place she can blow off steam, kick and scream and carry on without the likes of you or Cullen telling her to stop. She needs a place she can be who she is before bottling it up gets her dead or worse.”

“I don’t think—”

“Course you don’t. Why would you?” He sighs. “Have you seen the look of her lately? Seen the way she talks, the way she moves? I have. And I’ve seen it before too. She’s a keg of gaatlok just waiting to go off.” It is an odd way of phrasing it, but all you hear is that he believes she’s dangerous. “That’s not something you can fix with a quick drink or three. Might not even be something you can fix at all, but you’re sure as fuck not going to fix it by making her bottle that shit up until it blows.”

He sounds like he cares, like he cares as deeply as you do; it takes a bit of the strain off your shoulders. “No-one expects her to—”

“ _She_ does. You seen the way she looks at you? At Cullen? At the boss? She’s got something to prove, and she’ll kill herself before she lets you down. Crazy runt.” He mutters something in his native tongue; a curse, or perhaps an insult, you cannot tell. “She needs a place to be her. Who she is, and all the shit that goes along with that. Crazy, angry, frightened… whatever she’s feeling in a given moment. She needs a place where that’s okay.”

You remember the way she would not meet your gaze before, the way she flinched and turned inwards when she mentioned the room. Somehow, you do not think it has helped as much as Bull believes it has.

But then, how to deal with it? That is the question.

It was thoughtful of Bull to do what he could, to help in whatever small way he can, and it speaks volumes about his decency that he noticed. He is a better person than you, you think; he would sooner fix the problem, or try to, than send her out to struggle alone. You were ready to wash your hands of her, to cast her aside and damn the consequences, but he was not. Whether his methods are right are wrong, you do not know, but at least he made the effort. It is time you did as well.

You have tried so hard to keep a professional distance, to see those you work with as colleagues instead of friends, partners at the very most. And yet, against your better judgement, against your _will_ , she has crawled under your skin as surely as she crawls under your covers at night. You cannot think of her without _feeling_ for her at the same time, without aching in the places you imagine her aching. That is something you hope Bull will never have to contend with. He has enough friends under his command already; a painful choice is inevitable for him, sooner or later, and you could not bear to see him forced into another.

Perhaps it is true that the weakness is in you, not her. You care too much. You try too hard to protect people who should be able to protect themselves, and the more you think about it, the more you realise it has always been this way. You have always put yourself in harm’s way for those who should know better, have always put yourself in danger to protect those too slow or foolish to step out of its way. You have read enough of Varric’s awful stories to know where this path takes you, to know that you should turn away before it is too late, but just the thought of your empty bed, warmer without her cold bones but so uncomfortable, stiffens your spine to steel. You cannot walk away from this any more than the Iron Bull could have stopped himself from offering a room.

You take a breath, make up your mind. “Where is this room?”

—


	3. Chapter 3

—

You wait until night falls. It seems appropriate, somehow.

The tavern is closed for business, but it is far from empty. Some of its patrons have nowhere else to go, and others simply do not wish to leave. Either way, it seems the barkeep is more than content to let people use the space, and it does not surprise you at all to find Bull sprawled across one of the tables, fast asleep. Whether he has claimed this place as his new home or simply drunk himself into a stupor, you have no idea, but either way it is no business of yours. Besides, he seems content enough, comfortable and with a huge smile on his face as he dreams, and he is not why you are here. Let him sleep in peace, if he is happy here, and leave him be. You have more important things to do.

Her room is on the second floor of the tavern, as isolated as any room can be in a building designed for decadence. The door is closed, but that will not stop you; you move slowly, cautiously, unsure of what to expect. A small part of you hopes that this will prove all for naught, that you will press your ear to the door and hear only the soft steady sighs of slumber. A small part, and a foolish one; you must know already, at least on some level, that it will not happen, because when you venture closer and hear strangled sobbing instead, you are not the least bit surprised.

You do not knock. She never did for you, after all.

The room is crammed full of rubbish, but there is no bed. It is little more than a closet, a holding space for all the things that had nowhere else. Dust and drapery, vivid colours even in the night-time darkness, and stacks upon stacks of books. The ones that she gave you, it seems, were but the very peak of the mountain; there are enough in here to keep you occupied for a year at least. The idea brings a smile to your face, if only for a moment.

She is curled up on the window-sill, fully clothed and without blankets. It is hard to tell at a first glance whether she is asleep or awake, but either way she does not immediately notice your presence. Her features are contorted, twisted into a rictus of pain; her eyes are squeezed shut, tight and twitching, and she is weeping into her fist. You can see the marks left by her teeth across her knuckles, her thumb, the places where she bites down to hold the louder sounds at bay. Awake or asleep, it is obvious that she has been like this for some time, and though it is still early in the night still you find yourself growing angry, hurt that she did not think to come to you.

You could have protected her. You could have sheltered her from this. What was she thinking, trying to fight her demons alone? Everyone in the Inquisition knows that demons are her weakness.

By pure instinct, you kneel in front of the window-sill, reach out to touch her arm, the bare one where the sleeve is rolled up. You know it is foolish, know you should introduce yourself first, but the need to touch her, to ground her, is greater than all your common sense combined. Of course she does not react well, but your fingertips ignite at the cold contact, the frozen skin at her wrist.

The moment is shattered in a heartbeat; she bolts upright, choking curses, whimpers dangerously close to screams.

“It is only me,” you say, as though she can’t see that.

She pulls away, tears her arm out of your reach, and inches backwards. You try to ignore the fear in her eyes, the lingering pain, try to ignore the ache in your heart as she draws her knees up to her chest. The window-sill is wide, spacious, and it offers plenty of room to put between you. You let her crawl back as far from you as she wants, let her put as much distance as she can between you, and you make no attempt to chase after her. Give her space, you decide; let her breathe. It might make her more talkative. At the very worst, it will remind her that she is safe in your company.

“Know who you are,” she grumbles, voice like gravel. “What are you doing here?”

“You were crying,” you say, though it is only part of the truth.

“So?” she mutters. “Don’t see how that’s any of your frigging business.”

She shivers, rocking back and forth, arms sinuous and slim as she hugs herself. You study the lines, the tension in her muscles; she is less than nothing, but she holds herself with a ferocity that would rival even the Iron Bull. You want nothing more than to replace her skinny arms with your own, to suffocate that ferocity with your own quiet strength, but you stand your ground because you know it would not help. Bull was right, at least in part; she needs space of her own to be frightened and angry, to be as weak as she needs.

You say her name. Only once, but she flinches as though you have struck at her with your sword. You had no idea, when she came to you all those times, begging for stories and silliness, curling up in your arms, that it was to hide this much hurt. You had no idea…

“Leave me alone.” The words are a rasp. “Didn’t ask you to come in, did I?”

“If you recall,” you say, “I did not invite you to join me all those nights either. You simply appeared in the doorway, and I was gracious enough not to turn you away. Do you not owe me the same courtesy?”

“No.” Her voice is hoarse, muffled by her forearms, by the scrape of teeth over the frayed fabric of her shirt. “It’s different.” She swallows, and her whole body shakes. “I’m not like you.”

“That much is true,” you concede, and sigh. “But I think we both give you too little credit if we dismiss you on that account.”

She breathes slowly, messy tear-stained gasps, and raises her head just a fraction. “You’re not supposed to see me like this.” It is a confession, a breathless whisper. “You’re different. I’m different. _We’re_ different. You and me. Us, whatever that means. You’re only supposed to see me when I’m… when I’m not like this. You’re only supposed to see me when I’m _okay_.”

“Why?” you ask, though you suspect you know the answer.

“Because that’s how it is.” It makes you sad, makes you wonder what impression you must have given that she would hide so much of her pain from you, even in the moments when she seems to expose herself completely. “It’s just the way it is, yeah? You’re too good to see me like this. You’re… you’re too frigging important.”

It is a strange revelation. You have always assumed that she comes to you because she sees something of herself in you, a likeness that she cannot find in the Inquisitor or her other friends; even the Iron Bull keeps a distance that makes him hard to reach. He is Qunari, and that makes him something else, something _other_. You do not blame her at all for not being able to connect with him, but you have always flattered yourself that she comes to you because she can.

You could not be more different, the two of you, but there is an honesty in the way she speaks to you, in the way she makes you see a side of the world you had never imagined before, the way she makes you imagine something more. She would not climb into bed with the Iron Bull, you know, no matter how desperate or afraid she was. She would not venture to Dorian, to Blackwall, to the Inquisitor; those nights in your bed, under your blankets, shivering against your strength… those were yours and yours alone. Can you be blamed for thinking it gave you a kind of intimacy? Can you be blamed for imagining that she saw you as something deeper than one more unwanted authority figure? Can you be blamed for the sting you feel when she looks as you like none of that is true?

“I am not as important as you think,” you say, and can only pray that she hears all that in your words. “But even if I were, it would certainly not offend me to see you this way.” You try to meet her gaze, but her eyes are too bright, too damp, and she turns them away before you can make contact. “I would be proud — indeed, _honoured_ — that you would choose me to share this part of yourself. I know that emotion does not come easily to you.”

“You don’t know the frigging half of it,” she says, but this time she allows you to see her eyes. You consider that a victory, however small. “It’s just… you’re _you_. You know? Big breeches Seeker with your sword and your shield and your shit.”

“That should not matter.” You think for a moment, debate how best to broach this. She is volatile at the best of times, and with tears staining her cheeks you suspect she will be even more so than usual. “Do you believe I don’t know why you come to me? Do you believe it is a secret that you ache for comfort, for companionship?” You shake your head, force a wan chuckle. “No-one could listen to the same silly story that many times without a reason. Not even you.”

“It’s different, though,” she says again, sullen and angry. “Knowing it and actually seeing it. Different. And you… you don’t get to see it. If you know, that’s your business. Can’t stop you knowing stuff, and you’re smart enough to figure out whatever you want. But if you _see_? That’s on me. That’s…” She looks set to start crying again, so you turn away as a mark of respect. “It’s just bloody _different_ , okay?”

You do not argue. You could, but what would be the point? She is as stubborn as she is crude, and she would not accept the argument even if she saw the truth of it, simply because it runs parallel to her own opinion. You may not know her as well as Bull or Blackwall, but you surely know her well enough to understand that. So you let the point lay, let her take what she will and consider it a victory.

“Why did you not come to me, then?” you ask. “Were you really so afraid you could not control your tears any longer? Did you truly believe I would turn you away if I saw them? You must know I would not.”

“Course I know that.” She sniffles, looking incredibly small. You remember how she feels in your arms, skinny and made almost from nothing. You wish she would crawl into them again. “But it’s not about that. Being here, being alone…” She shakes her head. “I’m here because it’s right.”

“I do not understand.”

“This place is mine. Yeah? Bull made sure of that. Let me put my name on the door and everything. It’s mine. My place, my room. You know how long it’s been since I had a room that was mine? Since I had _anything_ that was mine?” You shake your head, wordless. “Forever. That’s how frigging long. And Bull… he did everything to get me this place, get me something that was just mine.”

“I see.”

“Yeah.” Her teeth flash against her lip, just for a moment. “So I can’t, can I? Can’t go getting in bed with you when I’ve got a place that’s mine. Can’t go wasting it just because the other thing’s better… because it hurts less… because…” She trails off. “It’d be stupid. It’s just… it’d be frigging _stupid_. I mean, why get a room at all if you’re not gonna use it?”

“A great many reasons,” you say. “You are not obligated to use the space simply because it has been given to you. You must realise that.”

But she doesn’t. You can see it in her face, in the twitching of her mouth, the tension in her shoulders. “You don’t get it,” she says, to prove your point. “Bull went to a lot of trouble for this. Meant a lot to him, and he thought he was helping. And you want me to just turn around and say _‘no thanks, I’d sooner go sleep somewhere else’_? That’s bullshit, that is. Ungrateful, stupid bullshit. And that’s not me. Not ever. I don’t… I don’t do that. You hear me? I don’t do that.”

You are starting to understand. At the very least, you believe you are, and you see her now through different eyes. She is far stronger than you gave her credit for, and perhaps a little more foolish. “You would sooner make yourself miserable than risk hurting his feelings?”

“Course I bloody would.” She says it as though it’s obvious, as though she cannot fathom living her life any other way. “It’s called being decent, innit?”

You do not believe that is the case. You cannot imagine making yourself uncomfortable for someone else’s sake, and certainly not for something as trivial as this; she must know that Bull would not want her to suffer for his sake, and yet she cannot bear the thought of upsetting him, even in theory. It is absurd, but you cannot bring yourself to say so aloud. She looks so wretched, so unhappy, and all you want is to make it better.

You do not care who is right, you realise, and this is new for you as well. You are used to everything being a competition, a debate or a discourse, of there being a set-in-stone right answer. You are used to caring if you do not come out on top, used to being sullen if you are bested. But now, perhaps for the first time, you find that you don’t care. Let her think she is right in this if it helps; let her think what she wants.

You do not care that she is being foolish, that her masochism serves no purpose; this does not matter to either one of you, and it certainly would not matter to the Iron Bull. He is a good man, and he understand the subtle nuances of emotion better than anyone would expect. You know perfectly well that he would understand if she would only explain herself; if she went to him, told him how she felt, made him see that your arms give her strength where her own do not… if she would only _communicate_ , you know that he would understand. And even if he did not, he is certainly not so petty that he take offence if she turned away a gift that hurt.

Does she know that, though? Perhaps, though most likely on a level that is beyond her; comprehension is not her strong point, but you are too polite to say so to her face. She is capable of remarkable things for someone with no real education, but sometimes her ignorance makes its presence known in stark colours, and there are no words in your vocabulary to make her understand things that are beyond her grasp. It is too natural to you, and too foreign to her. Some things are simply too difficult for her.

She breaks into your thought, coughing on another wet sniffle. “Are you all right?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.

“Yeah. No.” She turns her face away, and you catch the shame flushing her cheeks. “You should go. Gonna go off again in a minute, and I don’t want you to see it.”

You do not tell her that you would very much like to see it. You do not tell her that that you want to be here, that you can think of nothing you would like more than to hold her as she cries, to wrap her in your arms, to warm her as you did those other nights. You do not tell her that your own room feels cold and empty without her, that your bed, such as it is, feels big and uncomfortable, that the blankets feel threadbare and thin without her to pull them tight around you both. You definitely do not tell her that you miss her.

You simply say, “Very well,” and leave her to her tears.

—

You do not sleep without her.

To tell the truth of it, you do not even try. You strip down, climb into bed, but that is as far as the pretence goes. Why bother, after all? There is no-one here to see the charade, and you have long ago given up any delusions of fooling yourself. You know who you are, what you feel, and you are not ashamed. In your own company, you are free to be as you are, unfettered and unabashed, so why bother pretending that you will sleep without her there? Why bother pretending that her absence does not trouble you?

Instead, you spend the night poring over one of the books she gave you. You have found a place for the box in a small derelict corner; your room is no more ideal than hers is, but the space is yours and you have found an odd kind of enjoyment in organising your few possessions. The books look dusty in the corner, but looking at them brings a smile to your face, and for now that is enough. The one you pick out — a random selection, plucked from the top of the pile — is a thick tome, far from the simple nonsense you tend to enjoy in your private time. The story is compelling enough for what it is, though, albeit a little dry, and it passes the time as well as anything else. That is all you can ask for, you suppose.

You think of her with every page, heart aching to imagine her alone in that room, awash in the tears she would not allow you to see. She has such strange morals, such strange priorities, and you cannot make sense of them. You do not try; you could no more comprehend her little oddities than she could comprehend the words in the book. You are simply too far apart, too distant.

That is not the problem, though. You have never tried to comprehend her, and of course she would never asked you to educate her; that has never been a barrier between you. You are both content with the little you do share. Opinions, sentiments, distaste for the dry dust of the Western Approach. Simple things. Your relationship has never been a deep one, nor would you wish it to be. She has others for that sort of thing, and ones better suited.

You have seen the way she bothers Solas and Dorian, whining and tugging on their sleeves, demanding definitions for complicated words and phrases, so desperate to be respected by people who only respect wisdom. It is strange to see her speak with Solas at all, given their differences, but he is always happy to impart knowledge, even to someone as base as her; as for Dorian, you know that they enjoy each other’s company with or without the added burden of education. They amuse each other, you know; she trusts him not to mock her when she asks questions, and he takes that trust with the utmost seriousness. Whatever you may think of him on a personal level, you respect him for the way he respects her.

Educating her falls to them, and only when she asks for it. What falls to you is something else. Companionship, and a breed of comfort that she cannot find elsewhere. You do not know why, and you have long since ceased to wonder; lately, all that matters is that this is yours, that _she_ is yours when she needs to be.

You are not sure when this became a two-sided affair. Thinking about it makes you uncomfortable, but with only your own company you allow yourself the indulgence of wondering. When did you begin to miss her presence as much as she yearns for yours? When did your thoughts switch from wanting her gone, from believing it for the best, to wishing that she would creep through your door just one more time? It is a weakness in you; that much is inescapable now. The weakness is yours, not hers, but you find that you cannot remember a time before, cannot remember looking at her and wondering what the Herald was thinking in signing her on.

She is always cold. In your bed, she shivers until the floorboards creak. In the field, she complains constantly that her clothes are too thin, that the air hurts her lungs, that she cannot stop her teeth from chattering. She is always so terribly cold… and yet you are warmed when she is there.

Perhaps the Iron Bull was right. Perhaps that is all the value one need seek in someone like her. That her presence warms you as yours seems to warm her, that you sleep better when she is shivering in your arms, that you can no longer sleep at all when she is not… perhaps that is all you need. Perhaps it is all the Inquisition needs of her, all anyone could hope for: a woman like a tavern. You do not drink as often as Cullen’s soldiers or Bull’s Chargers; you cannot drown your thoughts in mugs and cups as they do, but you can feel them melt when she is in your arms, watch them dissolve when she stands at your side. A woman like a tavern, good for strangling sorrows you’d almost forgotten were there.

The sun is rising through the window, light dazzling your eyes, when you realise — truly realise, perhaps for the first time — that she is not the only one who finds comfort in your arms.

—

You know better than to try and speak with her in daylight.

She is an expert in keeping herself hidden; she will not be found if she does not wish to be, and you frankly have more important things to do with your time than search for someone who does not want your company. It will serve neither of you to confront this in the open, and daylight has never been a time you share. Daylight is for training, for solitude or exercise; you spend yours with Cullen or his soldiers, or else with the training dummies in the courtyard, and she spends hers drinking stolen liquor and causing trouble. It is how things were in Haven, and how things continue here, a routine that gives the illusion of simplicity in a world that is anything but simple.

Cullen and his soldiers are back today, flush with success. A mission well done, it seems, and he is eager to talk through his findings with you.

It is good to see him again; though he has only been gone a day, the lack of sleep makes the space seem much wider than it is, and you find you have missed his easy company. The mission was a mindless one, resources and scouting, but nonetheless you are glad to sit down at the war table and listen to him talk about it. His voice is comfortable, his presence reassuring, and those are both good things after the night you’ve had.

The surrounding area is rich with mineral deposits, it seems, and Cullen is fit almost to bursting with excitement. He talks earnestly, uses his hands a lot as he reels off discovery after discovery. He is more animated than you have seen him in a very long time, and that is reason enough to indulge him. It is odd, how eager he can be over things that are so small; he is a military man, a former templar turned commander, and yet it is things like this that make his blood flow, things that have nothing to do with his job. There is an exuberant heart beating under all that steel, and it gladdens you to see him lit up by something beyond the waging of war.

At long last, perhaps sensing that he has allowed his enthusiasm to run away with him, he stops. Clears his throat, as though worried he has offended you, and changes the subject with his usual endearing tactlessness.

“Moving on…” he says, and coughs again. “Have we missed anything of note?”

It is entirely too long before you can remember anything that has happened in the last day or so that does not involve an empty bed and a sleepless night. You flush, hope he does not notice. “The tavern is open.”

His face lights up all over again. Like yourself, he is not a big drinker, but you can tell he is thinking of his soldiers, the loyal men and women who need a place to vent their frustrations. He reminds you of Bull, if only for a moment, and the comparison lightens the weight on your heart.

“It’s about time,” he says. “That’s the one thing we were missing.” You look around, take in the crumbling walls, the dangerous holes in the floor, the mess; Cullen notices, and musters a self-deprecating little chuckle. “Well… one of many, I suppose.”

“Indeed,” you say. “The Iron Bull is particularly pleased.”

“I can imagine.” He shakes his head, as good-natured as ever, albeit with a hint of bemusement; he understands why Bull would want a place like that for his men, but the templar in him can’t help questioning a commander willing to drink beside his men. “I’ve seen the way his Chargers drink…”

“He treats them well,” you say, though in truth the Chargers are quite far from your thoughts. “He is a considerate commander.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it.” The tone hasn’t left his voice, though it’s touched by sincerity now. “I’ve heard what they get up to out there… or, well, _got_ up to, I suppose. Before the Inquisition. I know the kinds of missions they used to get dragged out on. There’s not a man among them who would’ve stuck out that sort of life if their commander wasn’t worth a damn.” He shakes his head, judgement fading to praise. “You can’t buy that breed of loyalty. You just can’t.”

You think about empty rooms filled with the sound of sobbing, about a friend who recognised the gaatlok about to explode. “He cares a great deal,” you say, and sigh. “We are fortunate to have him.”

“We’re fortunate to have everyone.” He’s smiling again, perhaps thinking of yesterday’s wanderings with his soldiers; he would give his life for them in a heartbeat, you know, just as Bull would give his life for any one of the Chargers, just as the Chargers would give theirs in turn. “There’s not a man among us who hasn’t contributed something to what the Inquisition has become. We’re in this together.” He hesitates, just a split-second longer than feels natural. “Every last one of us.”

He is talking in general terms, of course, about every little voice that has helped to build the Inquisition’s battle-cry into a roar to shake the nations. He is full to the brim with affection for his soldiers, his _men_ , and of course he is thinking beautiful things about every soul who shares his cause. You have seen him this way before, once or twice, and you recognise it well. 

And yet, though he can’t possibly be talking about her, not truly, still there is something intimate in the way he looks at you, something telling. You wonder how much he remembers of your last conversation, if he recalls the way you talked about casting her out. _“She will become a liability,”_ you said then, and your cheeks flush now to remember the sound of your own voice.

Your feelings have changed so much since that conversation — ludicrous, you know, given that nothing new has actually happened — but of course Cullen cannot know that. The last time you spoke, you were angry with her, and angrier still with yourself for not doing what you believed was necessary. Perhaps there is a part of him that remembers, that is trying to chide you for being so hard.

Of course, that conversation is the furthest thing from your mind now. You want to tell him that, to make him see that you understand better now what he was talking about when he spoke of coddling and forgiveness, what he was getting at when he talked about parenting. You want to tell him that it has all changed, that _you_ have changed, but of course you cannot. It was never truly a conversation, at least not one that held any meaning; neither of you are the kind who talk easily about things like this, and you can no more open yourself up to him now than you could back then. You can only nod your acknowledgement and hope that he sees you’ve changed without needing to hear it.

“I agree entirely,” you say.

He smiles, open and honest, and your breathing comes a little easier. “I’m glad to hear it.”

—

You go to her when night falls.

You’re patient, though. You wait the out the dusk, the twilight, count down the seconds, the spaces between breaths. You sit in your own room and stare at the walls, thinking, waiting, but not moving. _Just in case,_ you think, and ignore the softening of your heart.

Of course you know it won’t happen, but you want to be here if she does come, if she chooses to break the silence. You know that she is too stubborn to stray from the path she’s set herself, however barbed and poisonous, know that she would sooner die on a hill that is her own than live on with a measure of comfort, because that is who she is. It is how she has always been, as long as you know her, and though you are certain that will not change tonight, still you want to make yourself available, just in case.

It is important to give her a chance, you think, however unlikely. Too many times since the destruction of Haven, you have second-guessed her, second-guessed yourself, second-guessed everything that mattered because you let yourself pretend it did not. Too many times, you have cast aside what is important, closed your mind to what you want, what you feel, because the alternative is easier. Too many times. You will do so no longer.

So you wait. An hour, maybe two. Certainly no longer. Only until the moon is at its highest point, until even the tavern has become a shadow outside your window, until all of Skyhold has fallen into silence.

Her room is silent too. No sobbing this time, no pain, but that does not stop you. You are not here to see her tears, and you are certainly not here to shine a light on the parts of her she does not want you to see. If she only wishes you to see her when she is ‘okay’ — whatever that means in this broken new world — then it is your responsibility to understand; it saddens you deeply, of course, but you understand nonetheless. She has her own unique way of seeing the world, and that includes you. Painful as it is, you know you should feel honoured.

This time, you knock. It’s a mark of respect, and though you know it will make no difference, still it feels like the right thing to do.

“Piss off.”

The response is too immediate, too well-practiced, and the tone of her voice makes it clear that she knows exactly who is there. Clearly, she was expecting you. Perhaps even waiting, counting out the seconds, the hours, as you have been. Eager, perhaps, though you know she would never admit it. Part of you wishes that you were better at this, that you could master the element of surprise as well as she does, but of course you cannot; your predictability is well known. Too well known, in truth, though there is certainly no harm in being expected this time. Better that than open the door to find an arrow pointed at your head.

You shrug, and knock a second time, making it clear with the sharp rap of your knuckles that you have no intention of leaving, no matter how many colourful expletives she uses.

The door opens. She’s glaring, but you can see the light inside the room. She was not sleeping. Not sobbing, but not sleeping either. Shivering, perhaps, in her little spot on the window-sill. You wish you were more surprised, wish you could switch off the part of you that cares.

“I said ‘piss off’.”

You lean against the doorframe. “I heard you.”

Indeed, the whole tavern probably heard her; she’s not exactly known for being quiet, after all. You ignore the words, though, and the anger. It is false, artificial, veilfire on a mage’s fingertips. It is not to be trusted, so you push past her, press into the room.

The space, such as it is, is just as chaotic as the last time you were here, nonsense and knick-knacks strewn all about in every direction, but there is a strange kind of logic to the madness now. She has been busy, it seems, rearranging the place, transforming the mess into something that might one day keep her safe. A haven, if not a home. You are impressed by the work, and more touched than you should be; it is a wordless statement that says, _I’m staying, whether you like it or not_.

You do like it, you realise, but still you hear yourself say, “Your decor leaves much to be desired.”

She growls. Low, dangerous, a wild animal’s warning. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I ask for your opinion?”

“You did not.” You sigh, broach the subject as gently as you can. “From my experience, you do not ‘ask’ for anything.”

Of course, that is part of the problem. She did not ask to join you in your room, your bed, your arms; she simply did it, forced herself into those spaces as though she owned them. She did not ask how you felt when she stopped coming to you, when she removed herself from the blankets that had rearranged themselves so completely to fit with her shape; she simply stopped, and assumed that it would make no difference to you, assumed you would not care. It strikes a blow in your heart, that she thinks so little of herself, that she truly believes she can slip in and out of your life, come and go as she pleases, and you would never even notice.

 _A rogue’s stealth does not work on hearts,_ you think, but she does not give you the chance to embrace that sorrow.

“That’s right,” she snaps. “I don’t. Don’t ask for nothing, and I don’t bloody want it either.”

But that is not true. You can see by the flutter of her fingers, restless and unsure, twitching against the patched-up fabric of her leggings; she wants to ball them into fists, you can tell, wants to lash out, but she is afraid of letting the violence get the best of her. Like Cullen with his enthusiasm, she is entirely too aware of her shortcomings, the weaknesses that you were so quick to see in her, and as loudly as she claims she does not want you here, you can tell that she does not want you to leave either. It is purgatory of a sort, pain and pride in equal measure; like Bull said, it will be the death of her if she lets it win.

“Well, then…” You keep your voice even, your expression sober. “It will please you to know that I am not here to appraise your decor.”

“I know why you’re here. You’re not subtle.”

You smile. She has shown her hand too early, too quick. You are no expert at Wicked Grace, but you have watched Varric play enough times to know the dangers of letting the table see your cards before they’ve all been dealt. She believes she is in control, but you are the dealer and she does not know what other cards you have shuffled into this particular deck. A heavy-handed metaphor, perhaps, but you like to think that it would make Varric proud.

“Good,” you say aloud. “Then I shall take them and be on my way.”

“Wait, what?”

She can’t conceal her surprise, of course. Sadly, you yourself are only marginally better at concealing your self-satisfaction. 

“You heard me.”

You make a show of crouching over one of her endless book-stacks, narrowing your eyes with exaggerated and unnecessary scrutiny.

She watches, hugging herself. “Heard you, yeah. But you’re not making bloody sense.”

“What is so difficult to understand? I have read the volumes you gave me…” It is a lie, of course, but how would she know that? She has been avoiding you so emphatically, she probably wouldn’t know if you’d thrown them into the fire. “Needless to say, they whetted my appetite for more. Whoever used this room before you had excellent taste in literature.”

“That’s a bunch of shite if I ever heard one.”

“Regardless.” Though you do not deny it, you take great care in masking your smile. “I thought I might unburden you of a few more. Unless you were thinking of reading them yourself, of course…”

She bristles, offended by the very idea. “Fuck that. Reading. Who’s got the time for shit like that?”

You swallow a laugh. “I do. As I just said.”

“Right. Sure. Whatever.” Though you keep your attention on the stack of books — head down, eyes down, every part of you angled away — you can feel her eyes on you, feel her watching, gauging, questioning. “So you just, what? Thought you’d just come in here, take my books, then piss off again?”

You look up, lock eyes with her. “I see no reason why not. Do you?”

“Bloody right, I do.” She’s scowling, eyes narrowed, like she’s slowly coming to realise that this is a game, that you are playing with her somehow, but she lacks the faculties to figure out exactly what is going on; all the better for you, you think, though you feel a little guilty for taking advantage. “Because they’re frigging _mine_. How’s that for your ‘why not’?”

“Claiming a room does not automatically grant you a claim to its contents.”

It is a reasonable point, albeit immature, but of course it is wasted on her. Already, she is scrambling over to the stack, shoving you out of the way; you allow the roughness, meant as it was without malice, and watch with a smile as she hunches over the books, protecting them as though they were her most cherished possessions. It is rather endearing, if a tad melodramatic.

“It bloody does,” she snaps. “Hands off.”

“Very well.” You step back, because of course it was never truly about this. She is playing directly into your hand, and she does not even realise it. “Then I suppose I will simply have to stay here.”

Her back stiffens, spine so straight it looks almost painful, and when she turns to glare at you there is an odd look on her face that you cannot quite make sense of.

“You frigging _what_?”

“You heard me,” you say again. “It is hardly complicated. I wish to read these books. You, for some unfathomable reason, wish to keep them here. Thus, the logical compromise would be—”

“Shut it with your big words. Say it straight or get out.”

But you can see from her face that she is starting to understand, that your ploy is beginning to reveal itself. She is not exactly slow, at least not in the way Solas believes she is, but it takes her a long time to piece together the obvious. You have seen it time and time again, and you watch it again now, the way her brows knit together, the way they relax a moment later as realisation finally hits.

She is not the kind to soften, you know, at least not completely, but there is no denying the way her sharper edges become less cutting as she looks at you, the way her spine loses its stiffness, the way her shoulders slump, her whole body going slack. Perhaps it is the effort of thinking, but you doubt that; no, you flatter yourself it is the other thing. _Understanding_ , and the acceptance that goes with it. She will never admit it out loud, but she sees what you are doing, the lengths you will go to for the sake of her pride. You are here for your own comfort as much as for hers, and she is finally beginning to understand that.

“The books are here,” you explain, because she asked. “Thus, I would like to be here as well.” You keep your voice low, as innocuous as you can make it; it is imperative that you keep up the facade until she gives you permission to drop it. “Do you have an objection to that?” 

“I…”

She trails off, eyes wide and hopeful. You can see the lines underneath them, dark shadows growing darker. She has not slept since she stopped coming to you. You suppose you can relate; you have not slept either, but sleep has always been more of a luxury than a necessity to you. People like you, like Cullen, like the Iron Bull… you know how to function without much sleep. Perhaps not perfectly, but well enough. A sleepless night or two is no more damaging than letting a hot meal grow cold; the sustenance is the same, however unsatisfying. But to her, it is more. Just one more thing, you suppose, that you can shrug off and she cannot.

After a long moment, she finds her voice again, and the tremor in it lands like a blow. “You want to stay here?” She does not say, _‘with me?’_ , but you hear it just the same. “In this shithole?”

“It is not a ‘shithole’,” you say, very quietly. “It is a pleasant room.”

“It’s a shithole,” she snaps, misplaced anger to paint over some harder emotion. “This whole frigging fortress is a shithole.”

You sigh. She is still hunched over her precious books, face turned to the side to look at you. She looks so very tired, and the exhaustion makes her look much younger than she is; you want to pull her in close, hold her until she falls asleep, until she can no longer deny the reasons why she came to you in the first place, the comfort you both draw from each other’s arms. You want to smudge away the shadows under her eyes, the mistrust within them, the parts of her that feel worthless and empty. You want to strip her of all the weaknesses that seemed so important to you both just yesterday.

You do not do any of that, of course. She would not welcome your arms now. She is too flighty, too defensive; she is only just beginning to piece together the truth of why you’re here, the compassion behind the ruse about the books. She is only just starting to understand, and it will be some time yet before she allows that understanding to blossom into something softer.

Perhaps in an hour or two, when she is comfortable with your presence, when she has accepted the shift in dynamic here, the simple truth that you are both good for each other. Perhaps then, when she allows it, but certainly not now. Not yet. She is too volatile, and the Iron Bull was right when he told you that this is her sanctuary. It is her home, her _haven_ , and that means you must follow her rules. For the time being at least, such as they are, they are the law here. She has nothing to fear in you, but it is your responsibility to keep your distance until she sees and accepts that for herself.

So you take her final words, think them through. _A shithole_ , she says, as though she can make herself feel less for a place by saying that she hates it.

“Then perhaps,” you suggest, “it is down to us to make it less of one.”

She flinches, turns away. You do not miss the flash of discomfort in her eye before she does, the fear that seems so strange in a place like this, a place that should be so safe. She is far from the sobbing mess you found in here last night, but there is so much of her that does not fit this place, the garish decor and the endless clutter, the stacks of books and the moonlit windows. She is angry, frightened, perhaps a little crazy as well; she is everything that Bull said she was, but a room alone is not enough to protect her.

“Down to _you_ ,” she says, voice so rough it stings. Her shoulders tighten again, all those angular lines you wish you could smooth over. “Not me.”

You whisper her name. Low, as gently as you are capable of speaking. Just that, a name, because it is all you have.

“No,” she says. “This isn’t… this isn’t home. It’s not me. It’s not…”

“So you keep saying,” you sigh, and wonder if she is as weary of saying the words as you are of hearing them; you understand, of course, but it is hard to hold on to empathy when you are both so tired. “But repetition does not make it true.”

You remember the courtyard, your undershirt clinging to your skin, training dummies run through with gashes from your sword. You remember the look on her face as she presented you with the box full of books, how proud she was of the gift, and how swiftly that pride turned to pain when you mentioned her place in the Inquisition, her place among the people who matter. She is trying so hard not to think that way, so desperate to not be a part of this, to not be involved in something bigger than she is, something more important. She is so desperate to hunker down inside herself, to hide to keep from hurting, to believe that distance will take it all away. Of course it will not; that is a lesson you yourself have learned countless times already, but she is nothing like you and she does not learn so quickly.

She shakes her head, mutters something under her breath; curses or prayers, it is hard to tell. You know that she believes in Andraste, in the Maker, in all the things you hold so dear. It astonishes you sometimes, steals your breath to look at her and remember that she shares your faith, to listen and hear the old prayers trembling on her tongue. You look so different, _are_ so different, and yet your faith is hers and hers is yours. She whispers the Chant of Light alone in the dark, just as you do, just as you have always done.

“I don’t care about what’s true,” she says. “I don’t want to… I don’t wanna hear that. I don’t want to think about it.”

You understand. She is afraid, just as you are, just as everyone is. She is horrified by what happened at Haven, and perhaps frightened of her own feelings as well; empathy does not come easily to her, and grief comes even harder. You wonder if she has ever had this, a place that felt like home, friends worth mourning when they died. How new is all this to her, truly? How young is she, how hard her life, that she has never allowed herself to feel these things? You know so little about her upbringing, the life she’s come from, and what little she does yield is shrouded in falsehood. You wonder what terrifies her more: the memories of an archdemon, the smell of smoke and ash, or learning for the first time in her life what it means to lose something that mattered.

“I don’t want to,” she says again, a ragged whimper, so close to the sobs she will not let you see. “I don’t want to think… I don’t…”

You close your eyes, wish that her pain was not so painful. “Very well.”

You pluck a book from the top of the nearest stack. You pay no heed to its title, to its author, to anything at all. None of those things are important; it is the fiction that she wants, the story that she needs. It is the very thing she sought in your arms all those nights, murmured pleas for tales about Divine Justinia. She did not care what you said, whether it were true or not; she only cared about the words, the stories. For just a moment or two, just as long as your tongue was telling tales, she could believe — and so could you — that Justinia was still there, still with you. She does not want the truth. She only wants the words.

That works well enough for you, as well. You are older than she is, wiser and more worldly. You know that these hurts will not disappear simply by wishing they would. Haven was a terrible trauma, for everyone, but her pain burns differently because it is so new. You have loved and lost before, and you have been afraid before; there is nothing left of what happened at Haven that is new or strange to you. But to her, everything is a fresh wound, raw and razed down to the bone. Touching it will only make it hurt worse, fester, infect and kill.

She has never belonged to anything before. Nothing so big as the Inquisition, anyway; she is used to simply taking what she wants and walking away, slipping back into the shadows before anyone noticed she was there. Being ‘involved’, so far as she is concerned, goes only so far as taking action; she does not know how to be involved with something on a level like this. Emotionally, and fundamentally. She does not know what these feelings mean, the ache that swells in tandem with the fear, the horrors that you know haunt her dreams when you are not there to hold her through them. There is a reason she cannot sleep without you by her side. Archdemons, yes, but also the faces of people she did not know she cared about until it was too late.

You cannot ease that suffering. You cannot take away the things that frighten her, cannot paint her strange new hurts in brighter colours, cannot deck her out in the garish hues, cannot offer a headache to balm the heartache. You cannot even offer a room for her to sob out her pain in peace; the Iron Bull can do that, and all you can do is be grateful that he is there to offer the things you cannot. It may not be the perfect remedy he thinks it is, but it is still something. A sanctuary, if a flawed one. You cannot offer her that, the space she needs to be herself unchecked, to be angry and frightened and all those other things Bull sees in her, to explode like gaatlok without hurting anyone. You cannot offer her that, but you can offer her the temporary solution, the words that she wants so badly. Unhealthy, maybe, to hide real hurt with silly stories, but it is all you have, and all she wants.

You cannot make things easier in the daylight. Not for her, and not for yourself. You cannot stem the tides of her tears, and you cannot make your own place feel less empty. She does not wish to belong here, and a part of you may still believe that it is best if she did not, but it is out of both your hands now. Neither of you can deny it any longer; neither of you can pretend that she is not one of you, that she is not valuable… that she is not _loved_. You cannot tell her that her place is elsewhere, not any more, but you cannot force her to believe that it is here either. She must learn that lesson for herself, and you must accept that learning is harder for her than it is for you.

For now, all you can do is what she asks of you. You can keep the path clean, so that it is easier to tread when she is brave enough to test it herself. You can tell stories, shape fictions, feed her imagination with words while the rest of her wastes away, and though you cannot balm the pain of her memories, you can, for a time, help her to forget.

She hops up onto the window-sill, crouches there. She looks impossibly small, wild and twitching, and the way she stares at you makes you think of something caged.

“What’re you doing?”

She sounds so hopeful and so hopeless at the same time, fear and defiance battling inside of her. She wants to be in control, but she is not, and she is not nearly strong enough to try. All she can do is watch you, and all you can do is watch back, smiling with all the faith in your heart as you sit yourself down on the floor.

“Is it not obvious?” You open the book, let the pages catch the moonlight. “I am telling you a story.”

—


End file.
